Broken Flight
by fanster
Summary: A short one-shot of Haymitch's thoughts as Katniss boards the hovercraft to the Hunger Games arena.


This is a short one-shot inspired by one of the scenes in _The Hunger Games_ film. I'm working on my massive story, _Beyond the Veil_, and I have unfortunately hit a snag. Other story ideas kept popping in my head, so I decided to write one out in hopes of alleviating my writer's block. The scene this is based on is right before Katniss boards the hovercraft to take her to the arena and where the Tributes acquire their trackers. Haymitch has a conversation with Katniss beforehand. I tried to rewrite this scene from Haymitch's point of view and fill in some of the gaps with what thoughts might have been running through his head. I hope he is in character.

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Broken Flight

I have given her all of the advice I have to offer. The elevator descends, and I am glad I have talked the entire way down because it allows me not to focus on how it feels like a descent into hell. Finally, the elevator stops. The doors open and I am almost blinded with white. We quietly exit the elevator and walk outside into the glaring brightness—not a warm luminescence, but a cold and harsh light; unforgiving like the Capitol. I stop short, I know this is my last chance to impress upon her… well, anything.

"Katniss," I hesitate for a moment, unsure of how to continue. "You can do this," I finally settle for.

She looks deep into my eyes as if trying to gauge whether or not I truly believe it or if I am merely telling her this because I am supposed to, because I think she needs to hear it. But I don't have to pretend this time, I mean every word. Trying to find something to distract myself from this uncomfortable situation, I look out at the hovercraft. She follows my gaze.

I want to say something else, but what? I open my mouth, but no words come out. What am I supposed to say? 'Good luck, sweetheart?', "I believe in you?" Of course, I know what I am thinking in my head, things like: 'I'm sorry this happened to you,' 'you didn't deserve this; you deserved so much better,' or 'I wish I could have gotten to know you better but I was too busy trying to prepare you for the games—to keep you alive so you can return safely to your sister. Because even I have to admit that I have an enormous amount of respect for you, and have since you volunteered to take the place of another, fully knowing it would likely mean your imminent death,'… 'I wish the Capitol would burn and die, because someone as selfless and brave as you deserves to live and to live happily.' There are so many things I wish to tell her… But I say none of those things. Instead, I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile (I am not used to doing such things) and pat on the shoulder. I put on a brave face, for her. I owe it to her to at least pretend to be as brave as she really is.

"Thanks," she says. And this time there is no hint of sarcasm in her voice. Appreciative, I'm sure, that I am sober and being serious.

I give her a quick and friendly pat on the cheek, though I want to hold my hand there and caress it, and tell her that everything is going to be alright and have those words be true… to make all of her fears and this entire situation disappear… But I can't.

Then, she's walking away from me, in that defiant and stoic manner that I can't but help admire. Like the time she stabbed the knife between my fingers… It was impossible not to feel a stir inside of me when she looked up at me with her eyes ablaze, smoldering like embers. Girl on Fire, indeed. Peeta was right, she had no idea—the effect she had on people. I realized that she had woken me from my emotional slumber. She had gotten me to care, to care and know it, to care and be unable to drink myself out of caring. And then there was the time she shot an arrow into that apple—in the direction of the Gamemakers. I hadn't been there to witness it—but oh, how I wish I had. She reminded me eerily of myself, or at least, my younger, less bitter and less self-loathing, undrunken self.

She won't turn around or look back. That brave, brave Katniss. And so I let my façade disappear. I could not let her see the look of concern on my face. Although, I do believe there is a good chance she can win. An excellent chance. Better than any of the other Tributes I have ever had the misfortune to mentor. But this is the Hunger Games and if I learned anything from my time in the arena, it's that anything can happen. And even if she comes out of the games alive, there is no true victory. If she survives she will come out of the Games a completely different person than she was going in—a shell of her former self. She will be haunted by the things she sees and does for the rest of her life. I know as well as anyone. And, particularly for her, the Girl on Fire, I know that President Snow will make life difficult for her. He fears her. He has to. She's the only one who has given me something I haven't felt in what seems like an eternity: hope. And I know that I am not the only one. Surely, Snow has recognized this and will seek to snuff out the spark before it ignites to become an untamable wildfire.

I stay and watch as she slowly disappears. Each step away from me is one step closer to what awaits her in the arena. I desperately want to believe someone can make it back to me in one piece this time, but I know if I get my hopes up it will hurt that much more if she doesn't come out of the arena alive. And so I stay and watch her, fully aware that this might be the last time I ever see her. At least in person. Watching her in drunken horror on the television screen doesn't count. But every time I see her on the screen—alive—I will try not to hold my breath or expel it in a sigh of relief. Because Haymitch Abernathy does not react to such things anymore.

Over the years I have learned to expect nothing less than the death of every single one of my Tributes. I couldn't save them, and the accusatory stares of the people of District 12 follow me wherever I go. Many of them despise me or have simply given up on me. But what they don't know is that I see that same stare every time I look in the mirror; I see it every time I close my eyes at night. They visit me and haunt me in my dreams, the Tributes I've lost and the Tributes I've killed. I have been disappointed and hurt too many times, lost people over and over again. Every time I allowed myself to be optimistic, things inevitably went terribly wrong; and each time it would erode my faith—in myself, and in everyone and everything entirely—until eventually what was left behind was nothing more than an empty shell, less than a ghost.

I can no longer see her. She has entered the aircraft. And though I cannot hear over the deafening noise of the hovercraft, the sound of an ominous thud of the door follows her. I sense it more than hear it. Perhaps I am imagining it. The enormous, awkward looking machine lifts up in flight. No, not flight. Even with all their advanced technology, nothing produced from the Capitol could ever be capable of something so natural and wondrous. It merely beats the air into submission in typical Capitol-style. How appropriate.

Everything has changed now. The hope that I had long ago forgotten is alive in me once more. I try to banish away the feeling, but I find that I am unable to do so. This feeling is dangerous. It is so painful, and yet at the same time, invigorating; like partaking of the forbidden fruit—like playing with fire. Katniss Everdeen has allowed, no forced me to hope again and it scares the hell out of me.

The hovercraft is now a tiny speck in the sky. She is gone. All I can do is hope that she listens to my advice and finds a way, any way, to win. After witnessing the deaths of all my Tributes, I have become excellent (with the aid of alcohol) at numbing myself from my surroundings. I drink myself into oblivion and pass each death off as a typical function of the Games. Only one emerges alive. They're all kids who don't deserve what's happened to them, what difference does it make which kid it is? Or so I tell myself. And so by doing this I was able to cast aside my feelings of grief and regret, and bury them deep inside me, drowning them with liquor. But somehow I know, I will not be able to do that this time around.

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A/N:

I wrote this very quickly, so if the prose is not flowing well, I apologize. I'm not sure I'm completely satisfied with this, so I might make edits in the future. Perhaps it's too short? I'm not sure. Maybe it's a bit unfinished, seeing as this was just something that popped into my head as I was watching the movie. I wrote it down and decided to post it. This is my first Hunger Games fic. I'm mostly familiar with the films, the books I read through quickly, but I do not remember everything from them. This is not intended to be a pairing, although if you want to see it in that light, there's no reason you can't take it that way. This is only meant to be a one-shot, and I have no plans to continue this story. I do, however, have plans to write a couple more Hunger Games stories, one of which will involve Katniss and Haymitch if you enjoyed this one. Feedback and/or suggestions are appreciated. Thanks in advance!

Signing off,

fanster


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